


this moment (to arise)

by stellarisms



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Exactly What It Says on the Tin, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-22
Updated: 2014-11-21
Packaged: 2018-01-20 11:15:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 8,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1508474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellarisms/pseuds/stellarisms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A multishipper's compilation of various pairing flashfic, labeled as such and redesigned for archiving purposes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i can't stay awake (my eyes fall down) | kagehina

So quiet, so quiet that almost no one notices, Kageyama falls asleep.

No one knows how he fell asleep standing up.  No one asks.  No one can provide any answers, either, because everyone’s too busy coping with their disbelief.

The scene looks something like this.  Hinata starts the chain because he’s the first to notice, biting his lip to keep from chuckling but failing miserably.  Tanaka bellows with laughter, clutching his stomach, leaning on Tsukishima’s back and Yamaguchi’s knee for support.  Normally, the former would protest but he’s on the floor himself, fighting back hysterics while Yamaguchi struggles to wheeze out the other middle blocker’s name.  Sugawara makes a noise caught somewhere between a snort and a cough, turning away in hopes no one saw his completely not-vice-captain expression. 

Sawamura has a permanent smile fixed on his face but his eyes are so wide they’re almost bulging.  He expects this from Hinata, Tanaka, perhaps even Yamaguchi - but Kageyama, of all people, falling asleep during a practice match debriefing? 

He turns to Sugawara, hoping the other senior can explain this to him, but the vice-captain drops to his knees and _howls_ , babbling something about miracles happening this semester. 

Sawamura sighs. 

"Children, please," he sighs, half joking and half serious.  Maybe it’s his tone, but the others only laugh harder; the captain’s gaze flies to Kageyama, propped against the net pole.  The setter doesn’t even stir, even breathing continuing into the next minute of raucous guffaws.

After nearly five minutes, long after they’ve return to their pre-practice meeting, Kageyama’s still asleep — and now, he’s slid down to a sitting position on the floor, left shoulder still resting on the pole.  The only difference is that Tanaka’s sweatshirt now serves as his pillow and Sugawara laid their captain’s jacket over him as a makeshift blanket.

Hinata keeps stealing glances at him, though. 

It’s distracting, not only for Sawamura but for the others. 

Tanaka keeps nudging the wing spiker in the ribs to _pay attention dammit_ while Tsukishima and Yamaguchi exchange grins that must hold some greater secret under lock and key that only they know but Sawamura has no idea what they find so funny about it. 

Sugawara pats his arm at length and tells him to close up shop early today. 

Sawamura sighs again and agrees.  They weren’t making any progress as it was, so no use trying to push their luck.

And so, that was practice. 

Everyone’s taken turns trying to rouse the King — poking his cheek, ruffling his hair, taking off his shoes and tickling his feet — to no avail.

It’s around the point that Tsukishima pulls out a felt-tip marker that Sawamura intervenes, herding them all into the locker rooms to go get changed and head home. 

But Hinata turns back, slips away, while the others head off to get their things, and kneels down to look at Kageyama’s sleeping face for a bit longer. 

It’s almost strange how gentle he looks like this, such a contrast from his usual severe countenance.  The redhead doesn’t want to pinch his brow or shake him up or see what would happen if he stuck a straw in his ear or something. 

It surprises him, too, since this seems like the perfect opportunity to get back at the taller player.  He could finally get him back for being overbearing, for being such a perfectionist all the time.

It would be perfect payback, really, for staying on Hinata’s mind longer than he’d care to admit, long after they leave the school grounds and part ways at the station, long into the night when he should be asleep and instead traverses into stranger territory; worlds where Kageyama doesn’t look like a horror film protagonist, where Kageyama doesn’t criticize him for every little thing and work him to the bone to improve their synchronization, don’t exist in reality. 

But then again, neither do worlds where Kageyama flies alongside him into the burning sun, midnight wings unfurling as he takes Hinata’s hand and _smiles_ , because that would never happen in the real world.

Looking at Kageyama now — vague shadows visible beneath his eyes shut tight, arm laid over his stomach as Hinata helps him recline properly, so vulnerable no matter how built his shoulders are or how strong his legs are — the wing spiker decides maybe Kageyama isn’t as tough as he likes to pretend to be.

Besides, he thinks as he nestles up beside Kageyama and yawns, he’s feeling a bit tired himself.  Maybe this could count as their pair practice for the day if not for the dusky evening already settling in from the overhead windows of the gym beyond. 

It was the start of something, Hinata knew, and he rests his cheek on Kageyama’s shoulder (a grunt, a slight shift to sidle closer to him, and then silence) for what feels like a small-scale eternity before he too falls asleep.


	2. then you come close and knock me out | sawasuga

 

It began — as most things are naught to with them — with subtlety.

The attempt at it, anyway, is a struggle for Daichi.  He’s not an honors student, but he’s good with motivational speeches (as long as he’s rehearsed them) and he’s fairly good at knowing what answers a teacher wants you to answer on a test. 

But people?  People confound him, sometimes, because there are plenty of complications that arise from human beings and their _feelings_.

Daichi decides, sometime between his nineteenth week of freshman year, he doesn’t have the time nor the inclination to fall in love.

But the funny thing about subtlety?  The funny thing about love, really, is that it doesn’t care about convenience, let alone internal declarations. 

It’s not like the conscious decisions, like if you want a soda from the vending machine.

If, in this example, Daichi decides he want a soda, he pulls out some yen coins from his pocket and puts them into the machine and **bam**. 

That’s all it takes.  Decision, action, reaction, gratification.  Simple as that.

Sugawara Koushi is far from simple.

He sits in the desk behind Daichi, Class 1-A’s new transfer student from the south.  A chipper, overly friendly sort of boy, the kind who introduces himself and insists that honorifics aren’t needed if they’re in the same year and the same age.  A fascinating boy, who folds his hands and crosses his legs even while he listens to droll math lectures, interest piqued when the teacher brings up a problem on the board that “doesn’t make sense based on what the textbook says here.” 

Strides up to the board, much to everyone else in 1-A’s incredulity ( _it’s his first day here; he’s that transfer student, isn’t he; why is he drawing so much attention to himself_ ) and proceeds to work through an equation that took their instructor over a minute to reach the eventual solution.  Koushi (“Just Koushi is fine.  And in return, I’ll call you Daichi from now on.  Okay?”) completes the problem in fourty-three seconds.

After Daichi finishes counting, he realizes his heart’s pounding over Koushi’s cheeky smile as he stands proudly in front of the classroom whiteboard, and he wasn’t even holding his breath.

(“Let’s have lunch together,” Koushi tells him as he sits back down, just before the bell chimes to signal the end of morning classes, a breathless trill close to his ear.

"Sure," he says before logic gets the better of him — and Daichi thinks, quite well-warranted, that this could be the start of something wonderful.

He has no idea, at the time, how very right he is.)


	3. i like it here (beside you, dear) | asanoya

 

It’s silly, really, how Yuu gets so frustrated.

But he can’t help it when it bothers him so much.

Even leaning up and waiting until Asahi leans down means they can’t kiss without the obstacle of height, and that bothers him.  A lot. 

A whole ton, if he’s going to go by approximate measurement.

Walls impenetrable and struggles intensive — he knows them well. 

On the courts, they are challenges, things to overcome within a hair’s breadth of determined resolve.

He should know by now, like the back of his palm (stinging sure and sudden, an agonized slow drifting burn from the back of his legs to the tips of his toes that feels right, feels _right_ , no matter how many times the bruises form over one another when he falls or how long he tries to deny the thrill that comes with keeping the ball off the ground) held out to the midday skies from his perch on the courtyard lawn. 

Whenever he thinks about how lucky he is, he feels as if he can spread invisible wings and start taking flight with all the renewed passion that’s inside him, fueled by new reasons to fight the good fight and take on a new idea of freedom.

Freedom, he thinks, is not the same as being free.

Flying forward and moving forward are two vastly different things.

How much farther he has yet to go, yet to _grow_ , Yuu does not know.

But he’s so lucky, luckier than most will ever be, to get to add up all his second chances and find he doesn’t have to think about any of those things, not now, not when Asahi takes the initiative and kisses him first for once.

Every kiss with Asahi is slightly different, granted, but nothing but a good rallying momentum regained feels quite like today’s unexpected kiss, the kind that almost makes him stop walking outright in the middle of their stroll along the shoreline.

Asahi always seems a little bit hesitant, a little bit afraid, at first. 

The initial contact, the careful glean of his mouth, the slow start of his movements as precarious as the one-two steps to serve (ready, set? all systems go) because they’re _still outside_ and _we should_ _start heading back_ far from a suggestion based on the way the taller third-year makes a noise that’s not quite a keen as his hands clasp even tighter on his collar when Yuu pulls at his bottom lip with teeth and sidles closer to mumble _definitely my place, then, since my folks aren’t home_ _till late tonight_ into the scruff at the base of his chin.

Height is no obstacle in kisses once he gets Asahi started, of course, as Yuu learns later that night.

Later that night, it’s even easier to kiss while they’re pressed chest to chest and toe to toe beneath the covers, searching for new ways to touch in their old skins and stealing warmth beneath the covers like always afterward, steadying racing pulses like they do after a long match—

Only this time, just for this time, it’s alright not to have all the others, enjoyable as their company is, interrupting their own game’s flow.

(They make it work, in any event, as they do inevitably with everything else.)


	4. 「今、甘えん坊。」 | kuroken

 

He nuzzles his face into the slope the older’s bare shoulder while he reads, their fort of pillows and blankets scattered around their bedroom floor.

"If you want something," Kuroo’s voice resonates, rumbles in his chest and against Kenma’s cheek while the smaller man props himself in Kuroo’s lap, "don’t rub yourself on me.  Just tell me."  Then, with a lewd grin:  "Not that I mind you rubbing yourself on me, but—"

"I am," Kenma rejoins.  Kuroo lowers his novel in favor looking down at Kenma, whose catlike amber hues stare back at him expectantly.  "You just…aren’t listening."

Kenma’s grown quite a bit, Kuroo muses, in the time they graduated high school and started living together. 

But it’s still so easy, almost too easy, to envelop Kenma by holding him close under the crook of one arm (he’s taller than before, at least, though not by much where it’s ever uncomfortable), thumbs and knuckles brushed gentle over Kenma’s forehead, cheeks, the shape of parted lips. 

The setter surprises him, bolder than usual, when he grabs one of Kuroo’s hands to press the palm flat above the space in the center of his chest, just a touch shy left.

Beneath his fingertips, a slow throb swells forth, ever-subtle and ever-present. 

"You…hear it now, right?" _Oh_ , Kuroo thinks, catching the spark of amusement at his visible surprise in Kenma’s smiling eyes before the younger reaches out to place a hand over Kuroo’s heart.  “I want to hear yours, too.”

He outright pulls Kenma into his arms then, chin propped on the crown of his head while the blond burrows nearer still to lean his ear at his lifeblood’s center.

"That," hums Kuroo — shutting his book, placing it on the nearby dresser, easing Kenma back under the covers along with him — while his tongue traces the point where he too can feel the other’s pulse, "can definitely be arranged."


	5. funny how it all works out | sawasuga

 

Somewhere between the festival grounds and the walk back to the station, Koushi trips over his yukata.

He’s already moving to stand (carefully, Daichi notices right away, but nevertheless intent) but there’s a diffidence to his smile when Daichi whirls around and walks back to help. 

"And everyone on the team," Koushi chortles, tipping over on unsteady feet just before Daichi’s arm slips around his waist, "thinks I’m the overly fussy one."

"What they don’t know won’t hurt ‘em," Daichi chuckles, the familiar heat surging back from stomach to arm to face in response – his fingers clutch the taller boy’s sleeve, casual, elbow hooked with the captain’s before he’s aware that Daichi’s staring down his soil-smeared sandal and the foot that began to ache as soon as he slipped.  "Let me carry you uphill."

The _crash-whizz-bang_ of neon green and gold flash from the exhibition stage down below; he takes advantage of the instant Daichi’s gaze diverts, steps forward just enough to steal away the startled exhale from Daichi’s mouth.

"It’s alright."  Beneath the fireworks’ illumination, Koushi pulls back and watches the start of a smile flit across Daichi’s bright features.  "I can walk on my own.  Hold my hand, though, and I’ll let you know if I want to be spoiled a bit more."


	6. my dreams pulled me from the ground | kage-->suga

It’s like watching the moon from afar.

He’s graceful, eloquent. 

Walks the walk and talks the talk as well as the others claim — and more. 

If nothing else, he dances across life the way the moon does the sky: enchanting, ephemeral, yet enduring.

If their captain is the team’s foundation, the earth which stalwart crow’s feet walk upon, then Koushi must be the distant star which beckons their dreams along the path toward home.

But — Tobio thinks, knows deep down — he has no right.  No right to reach out and grasp any of that light, to yearn and to envy. 

Everyone appreciates the third-year setter’s presence. 

They admire Koushi, differently, much more than they ever would him. 

Inadequacy leaves a bitter aftertaste, a longing within him to improve. 

He trains that much harder at practice, but his eyes always wander back to Koushi, whose gaze returns his. 

Lingers and beams with the brilliance in dark eyes perpetual.

Perhaps, Tobio thinks, he can shine that brightly in Koushi’s presence as well — but perhaps that too is an impossible wish, as impossible as trying to grasp the light of the moon for himself.


	7. is it my go or it is your go? | yamatsuki

There’s expecting the unexpected — and then there’s _this_.

"T-Tsukki?" Yamaguchi stumbles, over words and his own two feet, jostling their forms pressed together, "why are you—?"

"Don’t," Tsukishima scowls, face leaning against the slope of his left shoulder, curled over him and the small of his back radiating with sudden warmth that floods across both their faces, freckles and spectacles notwithstanding, "ask questions and don’t ask me to do this again any time soon.  I’m just," almost as an afterthought, his sigh turns into a near whisper, "trying this out."

"Oh," Yamaguchi breathes — the uneven measure of Tsukishima’s heartbeat against the small of his back making fingers clutch at the other middle blocker’s jersey sleeve and the fact that the taller boy isn’t tense anymore, sinking into him as Yamaguchi sinks back, is a new and wonderful thing indeed, however unexpected.  "Okay.  I won’t say…anything, then.  Won’t tell a soul, Tsukki.  Promise."


	8. i knew that we'd become one (right away) | ukaitake

Keishin’s eyes are bright, bright, bright as their noses bump and their foreheads brush, the kind of searing warmth Ittetsu swears he’s forgotten (like the surge of pride he feels whenever his players, **their** players, made headway and start to show their first signs of growth) after his mind declares _no more falling in love_.

Ittetsu’s grin is brilliant, brilliant, brilliant as he shakes his head at the questions, absolute sureness to match the hesitant press of the younger man’s mouth against his (as though he senses, like always, what Keishin craves most from alcohol-free nights like these) and they break apart with breathless laughter and echoed _thank you_ s.

There’s a certain clarity within the narrowing distance between them, the settling ease by which they fall into place at one another’s side in front of the others and here — in this quiet apartment suite, late-night coffee mugs and flickering television screen all but forgotten, the sofa sighing under their combined weight while they forgo any further intimate touches beneath woolen blankets for nestling close to get some sleep — with the realization that they’re both, at long last, nothing less than content.


	9. this not-so-modern love | oikuro, aristocracy!au

_Aristocrats?_ Oikawa wrinkles his nose in obvious distaste, deciding this party was more or less a social gathering disaster waiting to happen.  _More like aristoprats.  Iwa-chan was right — the noblemen in our town know how to throw much better parties than this_.  

He might have turned heel and left at that point, too, if it wasn’t for **him**.

"Well, well, _well_.  If it isn’t the Pauper Prince of Youngstreet.”  Of course. In spite of all his practiced grace at keeping up a pleasant expression for the many clients he works with as a consultant for the upper crust, Oikawa loathes this nickname even more than his reigning title as the King Of Lower Eastside.  Perhaps more so simply because it’s this man, this infuriating man, who smiles like a smirk as he says it.  “What brings you to here Upper Eastside — to Nekoma Estate of all places?”

"Certainly," croons Oikawa, using a learned lilt reserved only for those who make him want to toss (more than) several of the pompous inheritors right into the nearby canal, "not for any other reason but to congratulate you, Kuroo-san, on your recent acquisition.  What was the territory called again?"  He furrows his brow, the very picture of well-rehearsed feigned flightiness.  "The Land Of The Dulls?"

"Ah," manages Kuroo, perhaps unaware of the telltale twitch to his brow that warns Oikawa he might have gone a touch too far with his oldtime rival from their university days.  "I do believe you mean the Land Of The _Crows_ , my dear Tooru-kun.”

"And I must concede," chimes Oikawa in reply, resisting the urge to follow up with a flagrant bow — though he does, as a countermeasure, offer what several chuckling diplomats and noblemen cannot mistake for anything but a curtsy, "you are correct, good sir.  Astute interpretation there, if nothing else."  Then, the injurious final blow: "I’m impressed that you were able to determine that without your little pet of a servant  beside you whispering to clue you in on the finer details of such a high-society conversation."

The stinging grip at his forearm does not, much to his surprise, come from the hired help or his bouncers from the foyer in the end — but from _Kuroo_ , who elicits several startled gasps (the young master never takes the initiative, the lollygaggling ladies murmur amongst themselves from the porchside, unless he’s been angered to such a point) and an stately older gentleman who peers from the refreshments counter at the scene unfolding by the water.

For Oikawa, it elicits a surge of heat singing through his blood as he thinks _this_ is a challenge — in words, implicit actions, and personal attendants not currently present — that couldn’t be described as anything but addictive.

"I do believe," Kuroo speaks, all but growls, as he tightens his hold all the more around Oikawa’s wrist and pushes him back, "this is when I must consider having the bodyguards escort you from the premises.  Or, perhaps, would you prefer my so-called ‘pet’ to return from the kitchen when I call him to handle such a task in their stead?" 

"As you are the rightful heir to Nekoma’s legacy," Oikawa says as he leans in, catching Kuroo equally unaware with the snap-tug of his free hand curled around the collar of his fine leather outer coat that pulls Kuroo right back in, "I do believe that’s up to you, _Tetsuroo-kun_.”


	10. you perceive all of these things (i'd never have known) | ukaitake, teacher/student!au

Keishin takes one look and he knows.

Smoke may very well be the sign of a lit fire, but this case yields no such results.  Ittetsu is far from what the rumors claim, what the hearsay  delineate when whispered among the faculty during and teacher lunchroom conferences.  

Keishin is almost fooled, blind-sighted by a kind of bias common to high school teachers before they even see their student rosters.  


When he calls roll for homeroom, the junior who raises his hand from the second-to-last row startles him with his crooked grin and bleached bangs pulled back by a orange hairband.  Startles him, too, when he’s called on to answer to Keishin’s questions about the summer reading, gruff tone chagrined when his teacher praises him and rubs at the idle scruff of his vibrant mane of hair when the other students stare at him, bemused.  Looks grateful when Keishin redirects the class’s attention back to the discussion and takes notes in careful scrawl in the margins of his notebook.    


The rest of the page, Keishin discovers after walking the rows to circle through and assist students during Composition class, features the most detailed pen sketches of animals both real and imagined that Keishin’s ever seen.  


Keishin brings it up when Ittetsu (the first one to arrive to class the next morning morning) comes up to retrieve his graded analysis paper.  


"You brought up an interesting point here, Ukai-kun."  Symbolism talk aside, his finger comes to rest on the giraffe-sheep hybrid in the lefthand corner of Ittetsu’s paper.  "I’d like to see more of this in your next paper as well, though…next time, with a little more detail, perhaps?"  


"If I remember it for next time," Ittetsu’s looking him straight in the eyes - looks down _at_ him - and there’s a certain undercurrent, a humored lilt to the rumbling cadence, that Keishin doesn’t miss, “will you go easier on me with the grading , sensei?”  


It’s been a long time, Keishin thinks, since he’s been underestimated.  A challenge, so to speak, of a decidedly different variety.  

A challenge he’s more than willing to take on.  


"I’ll be the judge of that," quips Keishin, resuming his poring through the other papers laid before him waiting to be graded, "once I see your next paper."   


Ittetsu grunts something noncommittal before turning on his heel in easy strides back to his own desk.  Keishin glances over his lashes.  

Ittetsu’s opened his math book, hard at work finishing his homework for Sawamura-sensei’s class later that afternoon.  

His Composition work unceremoniously lies on the edge of his desk, right where Keishin walks through the rows during lecture, already stapled and slightly creased at the corners.  

Underneath that is a leather-bound sketchbook laid open on a page with the same giraffe-sheep hybrid, colored and enlarged from the version he saw scribbled on Ittetsu’s paper.    


(There’s never a dull day in the teaching profession, Keishin smiles, rummaging through his desk drawer for the Copic markers and inking pens he brought from home.  Never a dull day, indeed.)


	11. you're wondering if i'm okay | tsukiyama

Best friends don’t keep secrets from each other — at least, not on purpose.

Tsukishima knows his best friend, though. 

He knows but never asks when something troubles the other boy, a boy whose unruly hair catches under moonbeams and drifts after his cloud cover, whose tenacious and brilliant spirit matches his given names. 

He knows but never asks, after all these years, why it is that children can grow into adolescent adults, knock elbows and insist on shields above the tender flesh over their hearts, and never quite feel right letting another inside. 

He knows but never asks why this boy’s presence feels more a necessity to him, a harbor instead of an anchor, instead of someone sentient, why to this day he hasn’t left Tsukishima’s side.

Yamaguchi could. 

At any given moment, he could leave. 

He’s far from amicable, far from admirable.  Yamaguchi says as much, in fewer words.  He stakes claim to the fact with a carefree sort of chuckle, the kind that lingers much longer than the sound resonates — a good-natured quip, but it doesn’t sting.

Even when Tsukishima kicks his shins in response, they both know Yamaguchi’s gotten away with something few others (if anyone) on the team could get away with unscathed. 

The others, who see the moonshine in Yamaguchi’s eyes and have no idea what lies beneath.

But Yamaguchi tells him the truth, meets his stare without hesitation, and admits to Tsukishima how much he wants.  To be a regular, to be worthy of praise and smiles from their captain and vice-captain, to give back to their senpai for everything opportunity given. 

"You’re," Tsukishima has no qualms about his honesty, glad to know what’s been bothering Yamaguchi to the point where he’s walked home alone for the last few days and wondered if it was his fault after all, "thinking too much again.  As usual."

"…Am I overthinking things?"  Strange how rhetoric from Yamaguchi’s mouth doesn’t feel contrite or outspoken.  It’s contemplative, careful, but not caustic.  "Maybe I’m overthinking things."

"You probably are."  There’s a lighter quality to the burden in Tsukishima’s chest now, when he turns to address to Yamaguchi’s curious head tilt.  "But if you ever need someone to hear you out when you’re overthinking things…"

"I know."  As effortless as the exhale that comes with an easy smile, Yamaguchi’s entire countenance brightens when Tsukishima trails off, no need to finish what he was saying.  "Thanks, Tsukki.  I’ll remember that."


	12. i could do it all (for you) | oiiwa, nsfw

Terrible connection aside, Tooru wishes he could see what he was hearing right now.

When Iwa-chan first calls him, at least two prefectures away, he thinks he’s heard wrong.  At first. 

But, surely.  Surely, the great Iwaizumi Hajime — diligence and emboldened determination — hadn’t just asked him for _that_ , had he?  Surely not, as he of all people would know the other boy well enough.  Given how long they’ve known each other, how long they’ve been seeing each other, how long it’s **been** since they’ve had time to themselves (fourteen and a half days — and counting, the setter thinks sourly), Tooru thinks he would know by now. 

What Iwa-chan likes, what Iwa-chan dislikes.  What Iwa-chan finds unappealing, what counts as a turn-off. 

What counts as a turn-on.

He’s more than happy to oblige, of course.  Happy to talk away, incessant chatter in non-sequiturs and blatant attempts at diversion. Anything to gauge the silence, anything to garner a different reaction.

He gets one — in the form of the most lewd sound he’s ever _heard_ from Hajime, in the heat of an intimate moment or over the phone — and it stokes the flames to a desire in his veins he never expected to set him off, knees shaking with the effort to stand and walk over to close (and lock — just in case) his bedroom door before he returns to drop down onto the bed, back first.

"I never knew," the incredulity in his tone might be loud enough for Iwa-chan to hear, but he wonders if the mouthpiece hears everything else — the click of nails over an unfastened belt buckle, the afterthought of a lotion bottle opening, the incessant dance of his heartbeat coinciding with the slick slide of fingers and the quiet gasp he hears over the other line, "you were such a pervert, Iwa-chan."

"Look who’s talking," is Hajime’s shuddering reply, almost no bite to the words when he can barely grit them out.  "You’re," he pauses, the muffled groan distant but unmistakeable, "the one who needs t-to…"

When the older boy trails off, the muted wet squelch continues, more than audible.  Tooru smiles, pressing the earpiece closer as he rests his cheek against the pillow, envisions Hajime lying there in his hotel bed the same way. 

Dark cropped hair, matted and mussed.  Mouth hidden behind the swell of his palm, choosing to bite down on the knuckles instead of let his voice be heard.  For once, not hovering over Tooru’s reclined form. 

For once, waiting on _him_ — Tooru’s heavy-handed strokes, Tooru’s taller leaner build, nothing implicit or shy or delicate about the modelesque boy’s face or the way he murmurs along the grooves of his chest, touches him in the dark the way the wing spiker almost never (but does) lets him touch. 

Caring for him, the same way he has Tooru all these years.

"What do you want me to do, then?"  A ragged breath, the rustling of bedsheets, the rhythmic creak-creak-silence.  "Or, how about this?  I’ll tell you all the things I want to do to you, and you let me know which one you like best."

"N-Not fair," growls Hajime, frustration evident, "if I can’t…do…the same thing for you."

He’s not sure how much of a substitute it counts as — his own fingers working himself open, almost too eager, to the point where he has to flip over onto his stomach instead, mattress a poor replacement for his own (or Hajime’s) hand but better than nothing — though it makes it even easier, even clearer, to imagine his lover, miles and miles away, lying in front of him, pressed into the headboard and letting out the same guttural noises while Tooru drives into him from behind.

"I want Iwa-chan," whispers Tooru, the distance dissipating at once behind eyes slipping shut as his subconscious takes over, "on the bed on all fours, uniform still lying down by your feet, ass facing me.  That way, I get to control the pace, draw everything out before I decide it’s time.  With my mouth, first, and then — after you start getting impatient and beg me to add them — my fingers." 

The hesitation, now, has much less to do with the vividness of his fantasies; he has the request on the tip of his tongue, but _god_ , Hajime moans out, and makes that same delicious noise from before all over again, the echo of it no doubt as unhinged as Tooru feels while he talks. 

Again, he has to shut his eyes, slowing down just enough to keep the pleasure at bay.  It’s harder than it looks (and feels) but he manages.

"I know you don’t let me do this often.  Been a long time since you’ve done it, too, so you make this face like it hurts and tell me so, even if it feels way better and way fuller than you’d ever let on."  The more he talks, the more he starts to visualize it: Iwa-chan, burning and tense around his fingers; Iwa-chan, struggling to stay upright despite the wooden surface in front of him open to hold onto; Iwa-chan, choosing to reach back and grab hold of his wrist, knees wobbling under the effort it takes to speak — _dammit, Kusokawa, quit being such a tease and put it in me already, you twisted littl—_ “But it’s alright, because I already figured you’d tell me to put it in quick.  So right in, sliding in, I go.  And ahhh, _aaaahh_ , Iwa-chan, even after taking care of you, it’s amazing how good you feel!  Clamping right down on me, and, just as soon as I’m in all the way to the hilt, you tell me—”

“ **Fuck** ,” Hajime wheezes, so loud and so _close_ , to the point where Tooru feels his own knees quake in response.  “This is,” panting, “completely,” the wet slap he hears, he knows, is most definitely his boyfriend jerking off to this, he’s getting _off_ to this, and if this isn’t the most arousing thing the setter’s ever done in seventeen years of living, “all your f-fault—”

He hears a thump, muffled perhaps by the covers, and a desperate cry he knows all too well. Tooru registers his phone slipping from his moist hand but he’s too lost in the dual sensations pushing him right over the edge (a few well-timed curl-thrusts of three fingers and little more than five shallow pumps over himself and he’s done so fast, comes so suddenly he lets out a noise he’s sure rebounds from the walls of the empty apartment and beyond, to the other side of Hajime’s line) and recovers after the fuzziness in his mind and over dazed vision gives way to the chime of his cell phone lying on the carpet beside his bed.

When he at last picks it up to check his messages, he beams — and resists the urge to call Hajime right back to let him know, knowing he wouldn’t be able to resist asking for another round of phone sex if he did:

_When I get back, let’s skip morning classes the next day.  Think it’s high time you get a little lesson in why taking advantage of someone’s kindness always involves a little something called payback._


	13. 'cause i love you so (can't help but love you) | hinakage, nsfw

Maybe, Kageyama thinks over the din of clamoring thoughts running rampant, being impatient has its benefits.

On the courts, he prides himself on control.  Thrives on the importance of careful choices, deliberate actions, calculated timing.  With a single misstep, he could cost his teammates dearly. 

A setter’s purpose, his philosophy: keep composed. 

Stay calm, as a resting leaf laid on the surface of the lake. 

Remain level-minded, cool-headed, at all times.

(He’s a little more than unsteady on his feet now.)

Kageyama remembers, drywall pressing into his spine, that he had his shirt just a moment ago. 

Wearing the team jersey, too, if his recollections hadn’t been shaken entirely.  How did it happen?  How far could a shirt thrown somewhere in here have ended up? 

If not in this locker room, left for them to lock up themselves now that it was after dark with the sharp scent of perspiration sticking to sweat marks on loose-hinged benches and on the surface of newly painted lockers, then it must be—

“ _There_ ,” Kageyama trembles at the wet suction over the front of his best (his only) volleyball shorts, speaks lowly knowing full well none of the others are around, tugging at thick gold-red tresses, “right there, don’t you dare stop— whatever you’re doing down there right now, don’t even think about stopping—”

Whatever it is, whatever it was the grinning boy on his knees in front of him had been doing to make his toes curl before, he stops.  The pleasure ebbs and then ceases, the urge of that cresting wave’s flow returning back from whence it came. 

He watches Hinata, pulling back just enough to see the flush of parted lips, the drying gloss of saliva streaked over his chin and his cheek and when he steals a look even further down, he sees the middle blocker staring up at him from the floor with a hand down his oh, _oh_ , that must be why he stopped.

"Sorry," Hinata exhales, settling back on his soles, not looking sorry at all when one hand traces the waistband of briefs peeking out from Kageyama’s pants.  "It’s hard to concentrate."

Every once in awhile, Kageyama hears something from the other player he can agree with.  Now was one of those times.

"Point taken."  Then, in a flash, an image — a stroke of genius, he thinks, in more ways than one.  "I have a better idea, then."  Kageyama smirks.  "An idea that works out for both of us."

Both Hinata’s hands pause, expression thoughtful.  As soon as Kageyama sees his slow smile, the flickering anticipation starts up at once — wanting, above all else, to make good on his promise.

"Sure," acquiesces Hinata, all but beaming when Kageyama helps him to his feet and beckons him over to the nearby bench.  "You, uhhhh, want me to sit down first, or—?"

"Actually," it’s the hesitation that turns Kageyama’s gaze away , leaves him at a loss for how to word himself; it’s the same hesitation, he spies out of the edge of his vision, that sets Hinata’s eyes aglow in obvious interest, "I was thinking I could be…under…you.  While you, use your…"

"Oh," Hinata’s voiceless revelation.  "So you want," gesturing, round cheeks darkening, "me to use my…mouth, or hands, or?"

Neither of them expect Kageyama to lie back on the bench, tugging the redhead’s wrist until he ( _finally_ , sighs the setter, _don’t make me have to say it, idiot_ ) gets the message and clambers over him, ruts against him and swallows the plaintive whimper of his name with lips sealed over Kageyama’s and he decides, right then and there, that all his composure, self-imposed principles of self-control, social positions and ability and capacity for logic— screw them all, the dark-haired teen thinks, palming Hinata’s erection as he decides his impatience to test a theory about those thin black shorts clinging to strong thighs quaking under his hold, the small form grinding against him in earnest with a wondrous friction, the kind he’s only dreamed about before, the tremble that comes before long with soft admissions _feels so good, you’re the best, seriously, god, i can’t st o p, fuck, kageyamaaaaaa, just— lemme—_ pressed into the cleft of his shoulder as Hinata  **shudders** , wet gasps heavy on his tongue and moisture pooled over his hipbone as he lets go too, lets himself go and be taken by the tides that steal his rationality, steal his breath, steal everything but the heart of the matter, his heart, beating so fast he lies there with the smaller boy panting and weary for over a minute bringing himself back down.

"Hey." Once he’s returned to himself, somewhat, his usual stern cadence falls flat, resulting in what sounds more like a hum to his ringing ears.  "Don’t fall asleep here.  We’ve still gotta lock up."

"Nmhmhmmnmmmm," answers Hinata — which, Kageyama supposes, is answer enough.  At least he didn’t pass out like the first time they did this together, though they were, at the time, holed up in Hinata’s bedroom on a Sunday morning when that happened. 

"We’ll have to shower again, too."  A touch chagrined, Kageyama feels as sticky as he’s sure Hinata undoubtedly is.

"I know, I know."  Hinata nestles into his open arms, pliant and warm enough that Kageyama can’t help but reach one arm around to keep him close.  "Let’s just lay here a bit longer?  M’pretty sure I’ll be like azuki jelly if I try to stand up right away."

"Fine," Kageyama grumbles — though the drowsy but altogether dazzling grin he’s rewarded with makes his heart and his hold on Hinata tighten.  "I’ll wait for you to feel less like jelly, then." 


	14. come clean | hinakage

"Ow," Hinata winces, this time not because he’s gotten soap in his eyes (again).  "Are you trying to rip all my hair off or what?"

"You’ve got more than enough of it," retorts Kageyama, continuing the near impossible task of removing bits of sprinkles and caramel cream frosting from sticky tresses.  "You should be glad Sugawara-san planned this as a pool party.  Otherwise, you would’ve had to go home." 

Hinata goes quiet and nods because — birthday cake thrown over his head or not — he doesn’t want to go home. 

That’s probably what settles him down, muses the setter as he smooths his palms over the shorter boy’s scalp, and shuts him up.

Kageyama’s grateful for that much.

He’s grateful to Tanaka and Nishinoya’s penchant for mischief, really, for the rare opportunity it’s given them.

He’s grateful for the poolside shower stalls, a quiet space to let his fingers dance across the start of the spiker’s damp hairline and massage the twinge away with hands running over the other’s scalp in what (he hopes) will ease away the slight twinge.

Grateful, too, while Hinata leans forward just enough to make him take notice, just enough to count, like he’s a pet being groomed. 

Like he’s enjoying this.

"Hey," the redhead mumbles, sheepish, blinking fast.  "You know you didn’t have to feel bad ‘cause you didn’t bring a present, right?"

"I don’t feel bad," retorts Kageyama before he tosses the towel on his lap over Hinata’s face, the smaller male’s yelps in protest waved off by Kageyama as he stands and kicks the stool back to the corner of the shower room.  "Go dry yourself off.  I’m done."

Hinata nearly trips on his way out but he’s grinning as he leaves the shower room with Kageyama trailing close behind, heading for the edge of the pool where the others have already broken into their water guns packages and second sunscreen applications.

Of course, it has absolutely nothing to do with the near indiscernible mumble of Kageyama’s “be careful, dumbass” as the setter’s grip on the crook of his elbow departs in favor of giving the crown of Hinata’s head a gentle pat and absolutely nothing to do with the flash of momentary fondness (he smiled, a _real_ smile, in the dim space between the tiled walls and the beacon of light surrounding the doorway leading outside, but — cheeks stained and a downturned panicked glance later, the look all but disappeared) that meant more to Hinata than any birthday present ever received.


	15. you’re my river, running high | hinakage

"Well," Kageyama almost growls, "staying back to practice our new formation was your bright idea.  How’re we supposed to get to the bike racks now?"

"I don’t know," Hinata’s higher tenor hitches at the last word, eyes flitting fast from the torrential downpour happening to where his feet, planted at the edge of the last gym step.  "You’re the genius setter out of the two of us— can’t you think of a way for us to get there and back without getting drenched?"

"Oh, sure," derision evident, Kageyama huffs, " _now_ you’ve got all the high praise in the world for me.  I seem to recall a slightly different tune before when you were—”

"—trying to figure out why you kept sniffling if you didn’t have a cold?"

At Hinata’s offering, Kageyama began breathing through his **nose**.  “It’s called allergies, dumbass.”

That gave Hinata an idea.

"So the rain must be a good thing," the redhead beams, suddenly, as he takes the first step backward out from beneath the doorway tarp cover overhead, "for clearing your nose and your head, I’ll bet."

"Hinata," the setter hums, mild irritation to his cadence but not quite protesting to the slick hand tugging at his wrist to guide him out back toward the school gates.

"C’mon, you’ve been grumpy as all hell today."  Bottled sunshine, Kageyama thinks, feels a weary understatement to the way Hinata lights up at the mention of his name.  "Live it up a little, Sourpants, unless you want your face to get stuck like that."

Flighty, frivolous, fire-bright Hinata — Kageyama thinks, muses upon it as he has so many times before, _knows_ — will always be his undoing.

So he lets Hinata drag him along, lets him swing the taller boy about in a half-leap half-trot around the perimeters of the gym.

So he lets Hinata press him against the outdoor storage shack’s walls, the rainfall camouflaging their forms entwined as the shorter one’s cool hands guide his own to rest on the small of his back as he nips at Kageyama’s bottom lip and shivers, looking all too pleased, when the ragged inhale of _Shouyou_ sounds along the swell of his throat.

So he lets Hinata kiss him, one kiss of many more since they’ve given into one another and (he hopes) many more to come, because if there’s one person who knows him a little too well, it’s the boy whose borrowed wings he would carry the weight of anytime, anywhere if it meant having the heart of this little phoenix-like crow all to himself.


	16. heaven is a place on earth (with you) | kagehina

Shouyou remembers their first kiss (a semi-national disaster, in what led to it and in the execution) but every kiss following that? 

Better, better, and — now, at least — pretty much the _best thing ever_.

Before he started at Karasuno, Shouyou couldn’t even imagine anything outside of volleyball.  The sport was his passion, _is_ his passion, and that had yet to change. 

All that changed, really, was a shift in that perspective.

Surpassing the Small Giant?  Still a viable goal, lofty as he knows it is.  Bettering himself in his current role as the team’s Greatest Decoy?  Definitely, though he still thinks a title like the ace rings out much truer to his competitive spirit (Asahi-san deserves it, though; he’s worked harder already than Shouyou could ever hope to in his next two years). 

Catching up to Kageyama and standing toe to toe with him at the net for Japan’s national tournament?  No doubt about it.

The only thing that’s changed is what Shouyou wants is his prize when that day comes: more than the trophy and being carried off the grand stage, he wants a victory kiss.

A kiss like this, for instance.

The kind of kiss that leaves him grasping for leverage, gasping for air, clutching the front of Kageyama’s jersey, the patience to the gentle swipe of his tongue met by the brief tug of teeth along his lower lip not quite hard enough to break the skin but firm, inexperience long fading off these days to find itself replaced by a newfound determination, a confidence mirrored in the setter’s evolving play style as of late too — though he’s just as anxious as ever about the rest of the team finding out about them, even if the running joke is that their comedy duo bicker like a newlywed couple.

The kind of kiss that leaves the rest of his momentary worries behind, dispelling them like specters sent back to purgatory, a little slice of something way more poignant than the taste of pistachio cake from the local sweet shop, way more warm than freshly laundered comforters wrapped around his shivering form that, in summer heat as stifling as this, he’s sure couldn’t compare to how pleasantly the skin over his spine shivers, how thoroughly flushed his face feels (and **is** , he discovers at a brief glance in the nearby locker room mirror), at Kageyama’s vague murmur as he’s learned how easy it is to get Shouyou to _stay over my place tonight_ when all it takes is a well-timed susurration here, a fleeting touch there, and the reluctant distance between fingertips not quite brushing as they walk to the bike racks side by side, grinning despite the anxious energy around them because _sure but only if you race me home_ always means his mind’s made up — just as his heart’s made up its mind to put himself into every kiss, like Kageyama— no, _Tobio_ , Shouyou finds his toes curl at the change, at what he’s allowed now that they’re together, because he knows the same applies to the taller boy as well.

(The kind of kisses Shouyou wants he’ll surely get, though he wants them only if he can have the boy he’s always wanted — a boy much less like royalty and far more human than he lets on from his setter’s throne — for keeps.)


	17. now that i’ve found you, i’ll call off the search | asanoya

 

He moves a half-step, a slight shuffle, to the left when soft pressure and scruff graze his forehead.

"Asahi-san."  Yuu doesn’t pout, but he does let the last hitch of his breath end in a whine.  "Seriously?"

A vague rumble, like laughter, joins the ever-comfortable shadow enveloping him — a presence marked by a broad chest, long lashes, and familiarity.

"Asahi-saaaaaaan."  Yuu doesn’t grumble, but he does shut his eyes to the fluttering over his cheekbones, to the rough pads of fingertips lacing with his.  "C’m _on_.”

He gets his answer soon enough, soundless and pure as the taller boy who kisses him.

Nose (a giggle, resounding and settling only after Asahi gives his hair gets a sound ruffling).

Chin (a wriggle, bouncing in place when the gesture retracts just as quick as it came).

Collarbone (a squeak, not from the soles of sneakers but from him, a realization that has him burrowing into Asahi’s open arms).

Jawline (a shudder, belated, when Asahi’s teeth trace gentle at his neck where he knows Yuu is weakest).

Everywhere except—

"Asahi-san."  Yuu never was the type to let the ball drop in a practice volley or a real game, so he wouldn’t dream of letting up here, either.  "Kiss me for real, next time?"

Unspoken affection. 

Tenderness.

_Forever?_

Yuu doesn’t know everything that Asahi is thinking.

But he’s good at guessing when his cowardly side takes over and when the gentle heart that beats within moves him back toward what brings him happiness (the game, the joy that accompanies successful team plays, the call of his name echoing across the court from everyone of the Crows, the ever-constant presence that follows after him, that Yuu swore he would always provide, far beyond the years they’d spend in high school side by side) and he knows, he’s absolutely sure, that Azumane Asahi’s countless kisses are—

"I always do," is what Asahi mumbles, leans into him shy as can be, but his smile hovers over Yuu’s indomitable grin and it’s like their first kiss all over again, "whenever you call for me."

 


	18. kenhina | saw your face in a crowded place

All summer long, Kenma dreaded this ride.

Too much jostling for twenty-five minutes worth a commute, too nondescript in the way of outdoor scenery, too many _people_. 

Kenma could definitely do without an arm in his face while he’s playing his DS, of course. 

But that’s a thought for another day’s consideration.

Then again, so is the boy sitting right across from him.

Like a wild burgundy bird’s nest.

That’s what his hair reminds Kenma of.  Among countless other idle thoughts and comparisons. 

Maybe— straw? 

No, that’s not right. 

Straw is thin.  Fragile.  Impossible to count the individual strands.  Kenma’s sure his hair is a lot more straw-like, if anything.

This boy - who looks no younger or older than Kenma - reminds him of his family’s farm, the countryside, the rolling hills bathed in sunset wash.

Like something set aglow, set ablaze, so fervent that it’s hard to tear your eyes away.

Which was why he gets distracted from his game (and he _just_ spent two hint coins on that last puzzle too…) and he hears a chipper “um, ‘scuse me, can we trade friend codes if you’re up for it!” Kenma practically leaps from his seat.

He takes a moment to remember how to speak before a mumbled “sure” almost gets lost to the faint buzz of scattered conversations and the train’s slow churning forward.

But he gets a grin that’s almost cheeky (cute, Kenma thinks, and his cheeks flare with color when he realizes he’s mouthed the observation loud enough for the grandma next to him to chortle) and suddenly the redhead hops to stand over him, Kenma assumes, to share his friend code.

Except that’s not what he gets.

"I’m Hinata."  There’s definitely something different about this boy, thinks Kenma, and Hinata seems to emanate an aura so confident that it’s like he **knows**.  “Hinata Shouyou.”

He’s always had a bit of a thing for uncovering the unexpected.

"Kenma Kozume."  But he feels shy, then, too shy to express the wonder of what he’s discovered just now.  Still, he manages to admit, "I always thought the name Shouyou sounds cool."

"Really?!"  Enthusiastic as the other teen is, the surprise only sweeps over Kenma when he hears, "Then call me Shouyou!  It’s a-okay by me, don’t worry."

As if he could even be worried about that when his mouth won’t stop…twitching.

"Great."  Kenma realizes, all at once, what it was he was so amazed about before.  "So…what’s your friend code, Shouyou?"

(Shouyou, as it turns out, is cooler than any magic spell that Kuroo could have ever cast on him for good luck this semester — and way better, Kenma knows once he registers the strange quirk of his lips as a smile, than any potential friend he’s ever known.)


End file.
